Trumpets
by hoovahoopah
Summary: He is eighteen now. Too old for fairytales and make believe. But Henry will always believe. (Not quite the direction I thought this fic was going to take really, but I think I'm going to end up expanding on it later. Because it's 2:21 AM, and what are you gonna do.)


_Those smug little men with their smug little schemes_

_They forgot one thing:_

_The play isn't over by a long shot yet!_

_There are heroes in the world,_

_Princes and heroes in the world,_

_And one of them will save us._

_Wait and see._

_Wait and see._

He is eighteen now. Too old for fairytales and make believe. But Henry will always believe. Sometimes, in the darkest hours of the night, as Regina's breathing has just begun to even out again, Emma will stare wistfully out the window, the stars bright against the wide expanse of blackness, and she will wax on about the gentle way Henry gazes at his mother, the way the world (cruel and bleak as it may seem sometimes) has not taken Henry's will to believe, to trust, to love. How he was always their hope, their guiding star.

He is a freshman at Cambridge College, studying early childhood development and computer science, and he has outgrown them both, standing nearly a foot taller than Regina. When he comes home for Thanksgiving, Emma invites him to shoot hoops while Regina cooks dinner. It's unfair, he's tall and quick, and Emma only laughs when he easily steals the ball and dribbles down the driveway.

"Some savior I am," Emma snorts and chases after him.

_There won't be trumpets or bolts of fire to say he's coming._

_No Roman candles, no angels' choir, no sound of distant drumming._

_He may not be the cavalier, tall and graceful, fair and strong._

_Doesn't matter, just as long as he comes along._

He's busy, but he calls. At least every Tuesday night, as soon as he's finished with his last class. The walk back to his dorm is long and quiet, but he fills the silence with the sounds of home. His mother's soothing voice, Emma's laughter, and he can practically hear Regina roll her eyes every time Emma tells him to join a fraternity.

Some nights he misses home more than others, but he's happy, like he never thought he could be. He remembers himself at eleven, brooding and angry, and he knows, all is as it should be. Emma is still his hero, their savior, but she is Emma, his Emma, his mother's Emma, and he understands.

He remembers lying awake at night, in the only room in the mayoral mansion that held any warmth, wishing for Emma Swan. He remembers the loneliness, the sadness, and the hurt that had settled itself into his bones. He remembers clutching his beloved book to his chest, looking out at the sliver of moon, wondering if Emma was looking at the same one, wherever she was. And he remembers wondering if she would believe.

_But not with trumpets, or lightening flashing, or shining armor._

_He may be daring, he may be dashing, but maybe he's a farmer._

_We can wait, what's another day? He has lots of hills to climb._

_And a hero doesn't come till the nick of time!_

Even at eighteen, eleven doesn't feel so far away. Eleven is just before one begins to become a man, begins to let go of wild fancies and dreams of Neverland and Snow White. But things are different when one has seen Neverland, and is the grandson of Snow White. But Henry thinks, even if it hadn't been real (and sometimes he wonders if it really is) he would still believe. He asked his mom once, what if he hadn't believed. She had set down her glass of wine, as dark as the night sky, and had looked at him, really looked at him, and her voice was soft and full when she told him, "You were always meant to believe. It is who you were always meant to be. We were all meant to be here, because of you, because of this." She had pressed a gentle hand against his chest, feeling the steady rhythm of his heart. And Henry knew then, Emma was not the only hero in this story.

At his high school graduation, Henry had spoken, addressed the assembled class, and he spoke of heroes, saviors, evil queens. He spoke about believing.

He was desperate at eleven, for something to hold and cherish, something to believe in. And it had come in the form of Emma Swan, as it had for so many back then, she had been their hero, his hero, their Savior. He knows now that it had been unfair, Emma was only human, had stumbled through it like they all had, but with the responsibility and title she had never asked for. He had expected fanfare and magic the moment they'd driven into the only town he'd ever known, and had found himself disappointed when immediate change had not occurred. He had thought heroes were like Captain America, like the characters from his comics, but he learned. He learned, and his illusions about heroes, about saviors, about princes and princesses, they were just illusions. And evil queens, evil queens are the biggest illusion of all.

_Don't look for trumpets or whistles tooting to guarantee him._

_There won't be trumpets, but sure as shooting, you'll know him when you see him._

_Don't know when, don't know where, and I can't even say that I care._

_All I know is the minute you turn, and he's suddenly there._

His first night back at home is familiar and his room is warm and he smiles at his Incredible Hulk poster as he pulls up the covers. (Sometimes he teases Emma, "You hulk out when you're mad. Especially at mom.")

They come to kiss him goodnight, like they always do, and he grins the same cheeky grin he's always had, and he laughs when Regina ruffles his hair.

"Heroes come in all shapes and sizes," he yawns, not bothering to cover his mouth. Sometimes, he is too tired for manners, and his mom only smiles fondly. "I'm glad I have two."

_There won't be trumpets._

_There are no trumpets._

_Who needs trumpets?_


End file.
